


Waltz

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Ravus prefers to be in control, but Noctis seems to just lead him everywhere.





	Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzRaft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/gifts).



“Do you Lucians have no other hobbies?”

It was muttered under Ravus’ breath as they moved together. As he took his position and glared at anyone who dared to question his assumed role in this interactions— real or imagined in the crowded, cavernous room. Stiff backed and unyielding, he took Noctis’ hand, and led him with a purposeful stride away from the lines of gawking observers. 

“Are you talking about this?” Noctis asked, more fluid to Ravus’ awkward stiffness; eased through the crowd with the practised ease of someone trained not to command the room, but manoeuvre through it. “Because this is definitely the only ball dad’s thrown in ages.”

And it certainly was. 

The room was back with the emissaries of Eos. The finery of Altissia, glittering in the late day sun still shining through the tall arched windows of the Citadel gathering room. The simple elegance of Tenebrae, clean and easy, floating after the Oracle’s example like early autumn leaves on the wake of the wind. And the military stiffness of Niflheim , with its sterile whites and bloody reds and the scornful distaste for a Lucian indulgence in hospitality. They all lined the edges of the room, standing in awkward political cliques until one crossed the imagined boundaries to the other— Lunafreya to Noctis, the guests of Glaives representing Galahd laughing with the Altissean wealthy over stories of the sea, the stiff and formal approach of an dignitary of the Emperor bowing to the hosting Lucian King— and the blurred lines became a porous chattering cloud of nobility. 

Noctis couldn’t remember the last time this sort of event took place. 

“I speak,” Ravus refused the flourishes of a traditional lead, his step light and practised as he prepared for a battle for control from Noctis; “of this incessant gossip and staring and… idle chatter.”

He remembered the last time the dignitaries had all gathered like this. The years before when Lucis last hosted the treaty talks of Eos— the gatherings that could last months to renegotiate the pieces of paper that kept them all from each other’s throats. 

But he had been young in those years long gone. Ravus a distrustful, scowling older boy not willing to spare the time for him. 

Now, in this year where Lucis hosted once more, the summer haze had hung thick over the city. The dust storms of Leide threatened the city centre, until the clouds finally broke like a fever and the rains doused the city. Outside, the streets were as lively as always, with traffic and fairs and seasonal festivals— music carried from the heart of the nation across the avenues where stalls and games were set for the citizens of the kingdom and the visitors alike. There were summer contests to tempt the bored, and the promise of indulgence to tempt those who lived further in the districts inward along the serpentine veins of Insomnia’s roads. 

There was no fight coming from his partner. From the slighter, smaller form of the Crown Prince he had invited out to the open dance floor with an extended hand. An open hand, that had set off the ebb and flow of chatter among the guests. 

He could have sworn he heard his sister’s giggle from somewhere near the Lucian King.

Noctis flowed into place, and Ravus was reminded of his rapier— the wiry frame, the slip of shining silver in the Prince’s eyes, the way every idle movement seemed to be so intent. There had been rumours to reach him away in Tenebrae, away in Niflheim. There was talk of the Lucian Prince’s deadly reputation among the quiet nation’s foes, the slight of crystalline magic that Ravus imagined he could feel electrifying the young man’s skin through his own gloves. He had studied the Prince’s sparring habits from afar, his quiet nature that left others to dismiss him when they shouldn’t. And now these movement, as the dance floor filled around them. 

There was no battle for control of the dance. Ravus was born to command, but he knew when he was being led. 

“What makes you think they’re talking about us?” Noctis asked as he fell into step. 

“They’re staring.”

Ravus set the pace to the waltz. It was a familiar one. A song he had danced with Luna, had taught to Luna himself in their youth. Had watched her in turn teach to Noctis when they were just children dancing among the blossoms of the manor gardens and in the fields of the Oracle’s flowers. 

“So?” Noctis never spared a glance out to the crowd, to the other dancers. He trusted Ravus to keep them in line, to know where they were moving, how they were moving. He trusted Ravus to take heed of the currents in the room and navigate them through the careful steps. “Think you’d be used to it now.”

“What is that supposed to mean, boy?”

It had been snapped, and Ravus calmed the nearest ruffled feathers through a cold glare. 

“I mean, you’re a Prince—”

“King.”

“Whatever. And you get looked at, it happens.”

“You have no shame.”

“We’re just dancing, Rav. No shame in that, according to my friends.”

“Indeed,” Ravus had nothing to say to that. He had seen Noctis’ constant companions. The sworn Shield watching from the sidelines, in uniform and silent as a statue among the festivities. He had seen the adviser wandering the crowd, calculating eyes lingering on people of interest, of importance, but never straying far from his Prince’s side. And the boy, bubbly and bright and out of place among the finery around him, trailing after the Prince like a common puppy and now waiting faithfully where he was left when Ravus had claimed his time. 

He doubted any of the Lucians understood the concept of humility, let alone shame. 

They fell into a quiet step as the song began its crescendo. It was easier to focus, Ravus would maintain, if anyone had thought to ask him. He needed to focus. He could hardly blame any misstep on Noctis— the Prince was flawless in his movements, infuriatingly flawless. Ravus wanted the slightest imperfection to appear, a slow step, a double step that would need correction, the familiar slouch he had seen in the Prince when they greeted each other the day before in the throne room. Anything that he could blame for his attention slipping. 

For the way his eyes wandered to the crowd of watching faces, intent on their movements as the song drew to a close. 

“Kiss me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want to give them something to talk about, right?” He saw the mischief in Noctis’ eyes. “You’re the uptight one, it’ll really get them going if you do the kissing.”

“Why, by Eos’s graces, would I want to kiss you?”

“Spite?”

He supposed, if pressed, he could admit that the scandal of it was Noctis’ idea. 

And Noctis’ smile— the smug little look of mischief and challenge— was something he would be happy to get rid of any way he could. 

The room was silent around them as the song ended. The dancers around them paused and stared, and the low murmur of talk started somewhere around the Lucian King. That was a satisfying thought, at least— a scandalized Regis was something he would like to see. Noctis was flushed and smiling still when they parted, and Ravus thought the new redness to the Prince’s lips was a fetching mark to leave. 

He raised Noctis’ hand and kissed his knuckles for good measure, as the voices and movement resumed around them. The manners of their shared society forbade anyone in the room from drawing attention to the disruption they had just caused for the evening. 

“Another dance, Highness?”

“You lead.”


End file.
